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<title>The Process | The Producers by LoserEddie</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967128">The Process | The Producers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoserEddie/pseuds/LoserEddie'>LoserEddie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Producers (1968), The Producers (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drabble, Funeral, M/M, its not exactly stated until the very end but i feel like the clues are enough, its short as FUCK but i thought it was longer so</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:41:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>820</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoserEddie/pseuds/LoserEddie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when one loses the other?</p><p>(i wrote this in one draft and didnt check it at all so have FUN)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Max Bialystock/Leopold "Leo" Bloom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Process | The Producers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He could still remember the way Max looked that night. That classic smirk on his face, leaning over the balcony with one hand on Leo's and the other grasping the railing. The hand holding; ever since they reunited, it had become a habit amongst the two. In a way, he was just so scared of them having to separate yet again, he needed a way to know that Max would still be there. Even after the arguments, even after the stress, as long as they could go back to holding one another, it would all be okay. Why couldn't it stay that way? Where went the late-night conversations, the laughter at jokes only the two of them understood, the shoulder to lean on after his anxiety flared up? Now, his arms hung at his sides, fingers curled tightly into fists that made his knuckles turn as white as his collar. A lump forced itself into his throat. When he got like this, he'd look at Max with an awkward smile, only to be greeted with a laugh, pat on the back, and some sort of comment like, "Calm down, Bloom, what do you think is gonna happen? The end of the world?" </p><p>Maybe it had.</p><p>Around this time, he'd be watching one of their shows right on stage. After a few performances, they would start drinking games, taking a swig whenever the audience reacted to something or another. Roger would run to their booth and whisper-shout at them for causing such a ruckus. As soon as he was out of earshot, they'd burst out laughing, going right back to their tomfoolery. Sometimes he'd look out at the sold-out seats. Not to boost his ego, just to see if there were any familiar faces. Eventually, he began to notice the same groups going to each of their shows. The men would enter in neat black suits with a lady or two. Black. Now, the color made him feel sick. It was everywhere he looked. Dismal expressions shrouded by shadows. Not even the chandelier seemed to brighten the room. In the theatre, he was overjoyed whenever the lights began to fade, knowing exactly what was about to come. Here, he couldn't predict one thing, let alone differentiate brightness from the dark. </p><p>The soft sound of shoes padding against a carpet. Was the floor brown? No, maybe red. Red. He didn't look at the ground after that. No need for a reminder. There must have still been people there. Flooded by the sound of his heart thumping like a drum, he couldn't make out their voices, but he could just barely see their mouths leaving. Some heads were turned in his direction. What they were discussing, he didn't care to know. Folks would mumble as he and Max walked past on their way to the theatre. Nothing bad, from what he had heard, but everyone had opinions. There were bound to be some harsh critics that only voiced their opinions once they were far. When he was with Max, though, he didn't care what they said. He was over the moon. His aspiration was laid out before him. Finally, he dared to reach for it. All thanks to the man that gave him a chance.</p><p>He was in front of it now. Seeing Max there, in a way, made the situation all the more real. The smirk he had grown so accustomed to had vanished. There was no witty response when Leo's eyes flitted across the room, no supportive hand on his shoulder as he felt his body began to shake. It was all just... still. Never had he seen not Max doing some sort of busy work or chatting up a storm with whoever bothered to listen. Heh. Who knew that loudmouth of his would- nevermind. Not now. Leo gripped onto his suit jacket. It was black, just like everything else. Everything else in this damn church that made his vision blur and his mind spin and his palms sweat. As of now, not to the extent to cause any concern. Even if it did, there was no chance he'd be able to leave on his own accord. He wouldn't allow himself to. Not when all of it was so fresh in his mind. The alley, the man- Maybe it was his fault. If he hadn't lead them the long way home, only to get lost. He shouldn't have taken that damn turn. He knew what the streets were like that time of night.  After living in New York, he should have been more cautious.</p><p>It's not as if he could change it now. The mistake was already made. All he could do was be in the moment. His mind wandered back to the beginning of this whole process. Those words still rang out in the back of his mind, where they would always stay...</p><p>"We gather here to mourn Max Bialystock..."</p>
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